(Cover by me)
Bauldr’s Tears: Retelling Loki’s Fate
Chapter One
“Loki Farbautison,” the deep, quiet voice resounded through the white marble courtyard. “You have been accused of murdering an Aesir—a willful and wicked act that cannot, through any cunning, be undone. Do you deny it?”
Slate gray clouds hung low, blocking the sun. Icy wind whipped between the pillars, tugging at the long, black, draping clothes and loosened blonde hair of the crowd of courtiers who hugged the perimeter. All of their pale faces, stark eyes, turned toward the center of the yard, where a young man stood alone.
He also wore black, with tatters hanging down from his shoulders and long sleeves. His long, colorless, shackled hands did not move, nor did his lean form shift. His curly, dark brown hair ruffled in the wind, strands falling down across his white brow.
He slowly raised his head. Beneath ink-dark eyebrows, striking eyes lifted to the far end of the courtyard—eyes like a gray dawn; alive, but distant. The courtiers focused on his angular, handsome face, noble nose, cheekbones and chin, and firm, quiet mouth. They watched him unblinkingly, waiting for his answer.
He took a breath, and slightly lifted his right eyebrow.
“Is there a point in answering?” He spoke lowly, each word elegant and precise. Vapor issued from his lips. The crowd seethed. Their murmurs rumbled like low thunder.
And the first one who had spoken—a tall, white-bearded king garbed in night, seated in a wooden throne on the dais—slammed his hand down on the armrest.
The blow shook the air.
His single sapphire eye blazed, and he gritted his teeth. His wizened brow knotted around his eye patch, and his fists clenched.
“You murdered my son,” he snarled. “You, who we took in as one of our own. You, who have been our…our friend for countless centuries. You have betrayed us.” The one-eyed king paused. His voice roughened. “You have betrayed me.”
The court murmured and groaned. Some shielded their eyes, others leaned their heads against their loved ones’. Loki Farbautison twisted his left hand and lifted his shoulder. His chains clinked. As if he could not help it, he glanced to the king’s right, where a magnificent, golden-headed prince stood, clad in dulled gold armor, and a heavy thundercloud of a cape that hung from his shoulders to his ankles. For an instant, Loki’s gray eyes met the prince’s burning blue ones. But the prince’s brow twisted, his eyes closed, and he turned his lion-like head away, pressing a hand to his mouth and over his bearded jaw. Loki swallowed, and turned again to the king. He raised his eyebrows.
“What can I say?” he asked.
The king would not look at him. His hand flexed, and he stared fixedly at something to his right.
“You make no defense, you will not answer for your conduct,” the king said hoarsely. “Therefore, we must acknowledge that there can be no question of your guilt.” He shut his eye, and closed his fist. “You murdered my son, a prince of Asgard. There is only one possible consequence.”
The court held its breath. The blue-eyed prince turned to hide the tears that spilled down his face. The king lifted his chin.
“Loki Farbautison,” he declared into the silence. “You are sentenced to death.”
Loki’s long-lashed eyes closed. Overhead, a groan of thunder rolled through the clouds.
And it began to snow.
Three Months Earlier…
Thunder growled around the thick wooden walls of the house as Marina Faroe crept from the sitting room toward the library, holding only a lit candle in her right hand. As her stocking feet slid across the floorboards, she bit her lip and prayed she wouldn’t trip over any of the boxes she had left out. The darkness hung thick and heavy around her, unwilling to flit away as her candlelight intruded. With her free hand, she pulled her long cashmere wrap closer around her very slight form, though the movement made her stiff arm ache from her thumb to her elbow.
She slipped through the pokey corridor, and then her feet padded onto the deep red, tapestry-like carpet of the library. She crossed the room, then reached up and pushed her candle down into a wooden candlestick standing on the carved mantle. Then, she knelt, groped for the matchbox, and leaned into the fireplace to snap flame from a single match, then light the tinder and logs inside.
It was difficult—the last three fingers of her left hand stayed curled close to her palm, and her wrist refused to extend more than halfway, leaving all the work to be done by her right hand, and the forefinger and weak thumb of her left. Besides which, it hurt.
However, after a few minutes of quiet struggle, a small fire danced against the rough-hewn stones, warming her narrow face, and lighting her hazel eyes. She dusted her right hand off on her jeans, then pushed her sleek, unbound black hair out of her face. Taking a breath, she lifted her head, folded her arms, and glanced around the room.
Deep bookshelves covered all the walls, except for the door and the wide fireplace. Empty cardboard boxes sat against the north wall, their former contents now lining the shelves. Ancient, leather-bound manuscripts, their spines ragged, their pages yellowed, sat in uneven rows, the titles illegible in the flickering half dark. But Marina knew them all—knew them like weathered faces of old friends. They belonged to her dad’s collection: volumes of Norse poetry, Viking travel records, maps, folklore, songs and legends. Some had been inscribed by hand, in now-faded ink. Others were first editions of research published a hundred years ago. She had read every one.
Marina sighed, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her right arm around them, leaning back against more unpacked boxes as the scent of burning pine and the crackle of the flames filled the silence.
She glanced up at the softly-ticking, intricately-carved Swiss clock sitting on one side of the mantle. She could barely see its face by the light of the candle—it was past ten. Her delicate mouth hardened. The storm had knocked the electricity out, so she couldn’t charge her dead cell phone, and she hadn’t set up her landline yet. She couldn’t have called her mother in New York at nine-thirty. Even if she had wanted to.
She shifted, pressing her left arm against her stomach, turning her head to consider the empty shelves on the south wall. Tomorrow, she would set her dad’s collection of rusty Viking swords on the middle ones, along with his glass cases of beaten coins. She would heft the small, stone idols of Odin, Loki, Thor and Frigga to the very top shelves, so they could be studied, but never touched. And in the far corner, across the room, she would stand the three-hundred-year-old half-tree up, so that all of the wide-eyed, gaping faces and squatty bodies of the dwarves carved into it could be seen in the firelight. And over the mantle…
She got up. Thunder rumbled again, shaking the upper stories. Marina stepped nimbly through the maze of boxes on the floor, and bent over one in the back. She pried the lid open, then reached in with her right hand and pulled on a thick, gold-painted frame.
Carefully, she slid it up and out. Firelight flashed against the glass. She straightened, and held it up. For a long while, she just stood there, gazing at the broad picture within the frame. Then, she turned, moved back to the mantle, and, grunting, managed to lift the picture up and set it there, and let it ease back to rest against the wall. She stepped back and gazed at it, keeping her left arm pressed to her chest. She took a deep breath, and her lips moved to mouth the words penned beneath the strange drawing. Words she had whispered thousands of times.
“Stien til Asgard…”
Silence answered her. Silence that had always been interrupted before by a deep, eager voice forming words of explanation—a bright eye, a roughened hand reaching up to point at the illuminated edges, a smile bordered by a dark, graying beard…
A tear escaped her guard. It spilled down her cheek. She swiped it away, swallowed hard and tightened her jaw—but the flutter of the candle’s flame drew her gaze back to the picture. Marina’s arms tightened around herself as thunder once again grumbled overhead, and the spring rain broke loose, and lashed the outer walls.
Chapter Two
Marina took a deep breath of cool morning air, thick with the scent of rain, and shut the front door behind her, as the sunlight warmed her whole body. She stepped down the short landing and turned back to glance up at her new house. “New” being a relative word—it was actually only new to her.
She could see it better now than she had when she had moved in. Yesterday, it had been cloudy, and she had ducked her head and hauled boxes inside between spats of rain. But today, golden sunshine bathed the whole house, and she stopped on the brick pathway to look for a moment.
Three stories, all dark weathered wood, with a peaked roof and simple, sturdy bric-a-brac around the thick-pillared porch, and upper windows. Marina narrowed her eyes at those dusty, flaking windows. They needed cleaned and sealed and painted. And she was fairly certain that the deep-green, hardy ivy growing up the north side had already slipped its inquisitive fingers in through the windows of the second story.
She took another deep breath, and glanced around at the rest of the yard. The lush, dew-gleaming lawn needed mowed, the rosebushes flanking the path had twisted and sprawled out of their bounds, and the iron-wrought fence surrounding the whole half-acre needed re-painted. And she didn’t even want to look at the snarled knot that was the vegetable garden on the north side.
She paused, listening. Birds chirped in the motionless boughs of the towering pines and oaks that surrounded and filled her property, but aside from that quiet, cheerful sound, all remained silent. She nearly smiled. So different from the rushing, wailing, flashing, seething streets of Manhattan.
She turned, adjusted the collar of her draping sweater wrap, and strode down the uneven walkway between the rose bushes, her boots tapping on the bricks. She pushed the squeaking iron gate out of the way, turned and opened the door of her dad’s pickup truck—a sturdy, new red Ford that had carried everything of hers up all the winding, sweeping roads from New York to here: an empty house by a tiny town near the Bay of Fundy.
She opened the door and crawled up into the cab—it was like climbing a tree. Her dad had been a lot bigger than her…
She settled, pulled her purse strap over her head and set her purse in the passenger seat, slammed the door, and started the big diesel engine. It grumbled to life as her keys jingled, and she gingerly pulled the truck out into the dirt road, sitting far forward in the seat and steering with just her right hand.
As she drove, the sunlight flashed through the trees and against the left side of her face. Marina rolled the window down, to let the fresh air in. She bit her lip, hoping she could remember the way back into town. She’d driven through it yesterday, late, but it had been in the rain…
She didn’t push the truck faster than twenty five, and she didn’t listen to any music as she maneuvered the road that wound through a canyon of pines, her left hand resting in her lap. She only came to one fork in the road, hesitated for a moment, wincing, then turned right. After a few minutes, though, she breathed a sigh. Here it was.
Marina doubted this little town appeared on most maps. But it had a medium-sized, stone post office that she could see from here, a wide, sunlit main street lined with a few quaint shops, a two-pump gas station, and a general store at the far end that she hoped would have what she needed.
She pulled up in front of the broad-windowed, brick general store and parked, then opened the door and slid down out of the truck. Her boots crunched on the gravel as she stepped up onto the sidewalk. She glanced to the right and realized that the store snugged up right next to what was probably the only restaurant in town—a white, pleasant little deli with the name Theresa’s painted in curly writing on the window—and the hanging sign said Closed.
Marina pushed the door of the general store open. A bell jangled over her head. She eased inside and let the door click shut behind her.
The shop was small, dimly-lit, and packed with rows of loaded standing shelves. White and maroon checked tiles made up the floor, and jars of old-fashioned candy almost covered the cashier’s counter off to her far left.
Before she had taken three steps, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and jeans stepped out from behind one of the back shelves.
“’Morning,” he greeted her, smiling. “Can I help you find anything?”
“Um,” Marina adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder and glanced around. “Paint?”
“Interior or exterior?” he asked, coming closer.
“Exterior,” she answered. “I’m painting my window frames.”
“It’s a nice day for that,” he commented. “Yeah, come this way.” He beckoned, then started back the way he had come. Marina followed him.
“Is there a specific color you’re looking for?”
“They used to be deep green,” Marina said. “Almost all the paint is gone now, but I think that’s right—some sort of pine green.”
The storekeeper paused and glanced back at her, brow furrowed.
“Which house are you painting?” he wondered. “I’ve sold paint to pretty much everybody in this town, and there’s nobody with pine green windows.”
Marina almost smiled.
“I’m new in town—just moved in yesterday,” she said. “I bought the Stellan house.”
The storekeeper, now standing in front of a rainbow of paint swatches on the wall, stopped and looked at her.
“You mean…” He raised his eyebrows. “You mean that old, Danish-looking house on the edge of town?” he pointed. “The one where that author lived for all those years before he went out into the forest and…”
“Yeah,” Marina nodded, then shrugged, smiling. “What can I say? It was cheap.”
He laughed, then turned to search the swatches.
“Ghosts don’t bother you, huh?”
“No such thing,” Marina said quietly, the smile fading from her face.
“Tell that to the people around here,” the shopkeeper answered, reaching up to pull a couple swatches off the wall. “Especially after most of us have seen or heard more than one weird thing in those woods.” He turned and gave her a pointed look. “Word to the wise: don’t go out there at night. No matter what you think you see.”
Marina frowned at him, alarmed, but he was perfectly serious, so she nodded once. He faced the swatches again, and pulled down one more, then handed them to her with another smile.
“Feel free to take these home and see how they look.”
“I think I’ll actually pick one out now, if you’ll give me a minute,” Marina said, taking them from him.
“Okay, sure,” he nodded. “Take your time. I’ll just be up here organizing some stuff by the counter.”
“All right,” Marina said, and he left her alone in the aisle with three swatches of green. Marina watched him go, her brow slowly furrowing as she rubbed her thumb up and down the pieces of paper.
The overhead radio clicked on, playing oldies. She blinked, and forced herself to look down at the different shades.
After ten minutes of debate, she decided, and took the swatch up to the counter. The shopkeeper eagerly mixed the paint for her, then helped her load up a basket of other supplies she would need, such as paint stirrers, brushes, and scrapers. She bought two gallons of dark green paint, all the other supplies, and a glass bottle of soda, and hauled all of her purchases to the front door. Two bags she carried in the crook of her left elbow, and the other two in her right hand. She heaved the door open. The bell jangled.
“Need help?” the shopkeeper called from behind the counter. Marina shook her head.
“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
“Okay,” he answered. “Nice to meet you, Miss…?”
“Feroe,” she answered, slipping out. “Marina Feroe.”
“Jim Fields,” he replied. “Have a good day!”
“Thanks,” Marina said, letting the door shut.
A crisp gust of wind blew through her clothes and hair as soon as she stepped down off the sidewalk, and she fumbled in her purse for her keys. She managed to dig them out, bite the side of her cheek and use the keyless entry to unlock the truck. It beeped. Grunting, she heaved the door open and swung her right hand bags up onto the passenger seat.
The bags on her other arm slipped.
She gasped. She scrambled to catch them, scrabbling around her swaying purse—
Her left hand wouldn’t obey.
One bag slipped and smashed onto the ground.
Her soda bottle shattered.
She wanted to scream something foul. Instead, she gritted her teeth hard, threw the remaining bag up into the truck, and got down to pick up the bag of paint brushes that was now filled with soda.
“Wait, wait—careful!” a voice called out. “Don’t cut yourself.”
She jerked, startled, and glanced up. At first, all she saw was a pair of work boots and jeans—then she saw the rest of him.
He wore a long-sleeved, blue shirt stained with dirt, as if he’d been working in a garden. He had collar-length blonde hair that lit up like gold in the sunlight. He hurried toward her, his boots thudding on the paving. Her face heated and she looked back down at the mess.
“I won’t,” she mumbled. “I’m just…stupid…” She twisted her left arm and pulled it toward herself, cursing her useless fingers. She reached out with her good hand and pulled the plastic back, trying to fish the brushes out.
“Wait a second—stop,” he urged—his voice sounded like an afternoon wind, warm and deep. It brought her head up again…
And she froze. He knelt right across from her, startlingly near. His face was flawless—pale but ruddy, with soft, strong features and jaw line. His fine hair hung like flax around his brow and ears, and his quiet mouth formed a small smile. But she saw all of this peripherally—for Marina was instantly captured by his eyes.
They were the color of the highest summer sky—pure blue, and brilliant as jewels, and fathomless. His dark right eyebrow quirked, and his smile broadened. He glanced down at the mess. His brown eyelashes were as long as a girl’s.
“I can get those,” he assured her, reaching down with both dirt-covered hands and swiftly pulling the brushes free of the tinkling glass. Marina’s mouth opened to protest, but nothing came out. Her face got even hotter.
“Here,” he said, holding the brushes out to her and giving her another bright grin. She managed to take them from him, and then he scooped the bag up and stood. Marina’s eyebrows raised. He was tall, his shoulders broad. He trotted over to a metal trash can and tossed the mess in. It clanged when it hit the bottom. Marina got to her feet, then realized she was staring at him. She turned quickly, leaned into the truck and stuffed the now-sticky brushes into the cup holder.
“Planning a project?” he asked, and she heard him come back toward her. She turned back around, wishing she wasn’t blushing so hard.
“Yeah,” she nodded, glancing up at him. He dusted his palms off on his jeans, his friendly look remaining.
“I’m painting some windows,” she added, shrugging, still keeping her arm close. He stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked his head.
“That’s a big job. Need any help?”
Marina’s eyes flashed and she frowned at him. He suddenly laughed.
“I’ve forgotten my manners,” he said. “My name is Bird Oldeson. I’m kind of the town’s handyman.” He met her eyes again, and inclined his head.
“Oh, I see,” Marina nodded. Absently, she noted that he had an accent—it sounded almost English, but with a gentle lilt that she couldn’t identify. She held out her right hand.
“Marina Feroe,” she said. “I just moved here.”
He gave her a look of startled pleasure, then took up her hand in a gentle hold. His fingers were warm.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. Marina allowed herself a little smile.
“Nice to meet you, too,” she answered. Then, she turned and climbed up into the truck.
“I meant what I asked you,” he said as she shut the door.
“What?” she asked, glancing out the open window as she turned the truck on.
“If you need any help.” He wasn’t really smiling now—he gazed at her with raised eyebrows. She shook her head.
“No, I think I’m okay,” she said. “Thank you, though.”
“You’re sure?” he pressed, his voice quieter. Marina paused, studying him, then nodded again.
“Yes,” she said. “But really—thank you.”
He gave her a half smile, then bowed his head again.
“I’m sure I will see you again.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she broadened her smile a little, then put the truck in reverse, pulled out and headed back alone to her old house.
Marina leaned the shaky ladder up against the north wall of the house. It rattled as it hit the sunlit siding. She took the heavy clippers in her hand and gazed straight up. Before she did anything with the paint, she had to get the ivy off the windows of the second story. Which was going to be tricky.
She clamped the handle of the clippers between her teeth, grabbed one of the rungs of the ladder and set her feet. Then, taking a breath, she started to climb, only occasionally using her left hand for balance. Once she reached the top, she wrapped her left arm around the ladder, took the clippers in her hand and began snapping at the ivy.
The long tendrils fell down in waves, but more and more lay beneath, like a thick carpet. Her arm got sore, and the ladder wobbled, but she worked for several hours without stopping.
Finally, her shoulder couldn’t take it anymore, and she sighed, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and started down.
She gathered up the trimmed ivy and hauled it around to the sagging mulch pile near the garden. Then, she came back around, put her hand on her narrow hip and gazed up…
To see that it hardly looked like she’d done anything. She gritted her teeth, frowned fiercely at the remaining ivy, snatched the clippers up from the grass and started up the ladder again.
Marina thrashed. Her sleeping bag tore. She jerked awake, sweating, her heart hammering. She stared at the dark ceiling of the study.
Jerking gasps caught in her chest and she shivered all over. Weakly, she lifted her head and glanced through the door. Gray light of dawn seeped in through the sitting room windows. She swallowed and eased her head back down onto her crooked pillow—and grimaced.
Clenching pain ran up and down her left side and shot through her shoulder, down her arm, twisted through her elbow and clamped down on her wrist. Her arm shuddered, and she pulled it against her chest. Her whole back ached, and she felt like she had a fever.
For an hour, she lay there, breathing deeply, forcing her muscles to loosen, mentally kicking herself. She’d overdone it today. She should have stopped after tearing the whole wall of ivy down, and not tried to tackle the rosebushes by the front walk. She’d known that when she started that last job, but she hadn’t listened to herself. Now she was paying for it.
Tears leaked out and ran down her temples. She knew what it was like to wake up fully rested, without any pain. But she couldn’t remember the last time she had.
And the last time it hurt this much had been about a month after it happened.
She sat up, groaning and gritting her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. She stayed still a moment, regulating her breathing, trying to stop shivering. Then, she pushed her sleeping bag off herself and crawled to her feet. The ruffle of her long white nightgown tumbled to her ankles. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled.
“Such an idiot, Marina…” she muttered. She crossed the rug and left the study, turned down the hall and fumbled with the lock on the front door. If she could just get some fresh air, the ache in her head might go away, at least…
She pulled the thick, heavy black door open. Its hinges squeaked.
Fresh air gushed in to meet her, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the door go as it swung further open. She stepped up and leaned sideways against the wide doorframe, letting the breeze cool her hot forehead. Sighing, she finally opened her eyes, and gazed out at her gray front yard, hung with early-morning shadow. She lingered on the ragged rose bushes, whose branches still hung wild, disordered and tangled all over the other flower beds and the path.
Then, she caught sight of something on her front step. Frowning, she shuffled out, bent with a wince, and picked it up.
She fingered the flimsy sheets of a small newspaper of ads and coupons. Her mouth quirked as she straightened. The people in her new town didn’t waste any time trying to sell things to her…
Her eyes focused on the front page. She frowned.
Right in the middle sat an ad for Svenson’s Plumbing, Carpentry and Landscaping—and it listed its employees: Richard Smith, Harry Williams, and Bird Oldeson.
Marina absently pulled her left arm against her stomach, and stared at the name as her unsteady hand held the paper. Then, she clenched her jaw, muttered a Danish curse word under her breath, and turned and went back inside to find a light, hoping the ad listed Svenson’s hours.
Chapter Three
With each lap she made around the house, the aching in her muscles eased, and her left side relaxed. She wandered through the green, sunlit lawn, following a crooked brick path that led her between the overgrown rows of herbs, and beneath a leaning arbor laden with grape vines. Her heels tapped on the dull stone as she passed into the deep shadow behind the house, cast by three towering oaks. She glanced over the half-sunken benches and toppled bird bath, all swallowed by vines and weeds. A little robin alighted on the back of one of the benches and cocked his head at her. She paused, and watched his bright eyes. He chirped once, then fluttered up and away, darting into the forest and out of sight.
A chilly gust of wind issued from the reaches of the woods, and rustled through her hair and clothes and the boughs of the trees. She wrapped her arms around herself and narrowed her eyes at the deep, tangled green shadow beyond the benches, the line of pines and the sagging wrought iron fence. She turned, and resumed her walk.
On the other side of the house, she came again to the rose garden, all in disarray. Many bloomed—red, white, peach and maroon—but they snarled together like an evil fairy’s curse. One rosebush in particular made her frown: it bore no buds, and it leaned menacingly up against the house very close to the sitting-room window, just as the ivy had done on the opposite side. She paused and stepped closer to the plant, glancing it up and down. Thick, wicked thorns covered all its branches, and even its leaves. It needed to be cut back, or torn out—but she was afraid it would slice her to shreds if she tried.
Far off, a low rumbling arose through the silence, obscuring the twittering of the birds. Marina’s head came up, and she listened. Then, she took a breath and braced herself, and started back around to the front of the house. She picked through the border garden, kicked at a large weed, and halted in front of the steps, her arms still folded, gazing toward the road, toward town, at the approaching pickup truck.
The truck’s brown paint gleamed in the brilliant sun, and shovels, ladders and other tools rattled around in the bed. It pulled up in her driveway next to her own truck, and the throbbing engine cut out. The next moment, the door creaked open, and the tall, winsome form of Bird Oldeson hopped out onto the gravel.
He wore a tan t-shirt, worn jeans and boots, and gave her a smile that lit the day up even brighter. She reflexively returned it.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he called, striding toward her, his vivid blue eyes glancing all around at the sky, then the gardens and trees, as the light made a halo of his hair.
“Yes,” she nodded. “I think the rain did some good.”
“Oh, always,” he grinned, coming up to stop in front of her. He held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Miss Feroe.”
“Thanks,” she nodded, and barely took hold of his fingers. She let go right away, blushing, but he didn’t act like he noticed. He stuck both hands in his pockets, then looked her house up and down.
“Well, what is it you need done?” he asked, then met her eyes. She smiled crookedly and glanced behind her.
“The question is,” she said. “What do I not need done.”
He laughed. The ringing sound made the birds flutter.
“All right, let me rephrase,” he amended. “What do you need done first?”
“Well…” she sighed, frowning as she studied her house, then faced him again. “The windows. They leaked during the thunderstorm. The rest of the stuff in the garden can wait a while, but I don’t want my furniture ruined if it decides to rain again soon.”
“All right,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair as his brow furrowed. “You have the paint already, I assume—but the windows will probably need sealed, maybe even adjusted, since they’ve gotten crooked as the house shifts.”
“Okay, do whatever you need to do.” Marina folded her arms and cocked her head. “Are you paid by the hour?”
“Yes.”
“All right, go ahead,” she gestured toward the house. “Bring me any paperwork or questions or whatever—I’ll just be down here, trying to get this rose garden under control.”
He nodded again, catching her eye and giving her a soft, bright smile that warmed her to her core.
“I’ll get started right now,” he said, and turned and strode back to his truck, his boots crunching on the sand. Suppressing her own smile, Marina faced the house again and headed back toward the roses.
All day, Marina sat on a short stool with her back to the sun, letting it warm her, as she cut the overgrown roses back away from the path with a set of sturdy clippers. She had managed to find her work gloves, so she was able to thrust her hand into the thorny mess without tearing up her skin—though working with her left hand remained a challenge. Her long braid hung over her shoulder, and her jeans and loose shirt got dirty, but she didn’t care. Birds crooned and twittered in the bushes and in the branches of the bordering trees, and a quiet wind rustled the leaves.
Behind and above her, Bird Oldeson perched on a ladder, leaning up against the front of the house. His hammer clacked, the wood of the window frame creaked as he pried and pulled, and the ladder rungs squeaked with each step as he effortlessly ascended or descended to resume or go get a tool. She didn’t look at him—she just listened to the patter and tap of his rhythms, and the thud of his footsteps.
When she had gotten halfway down the row of roses, she paused a moment, sat back and winced at her stiff muscles, then wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Bird’s hammer tapped three times, rapidly. Then, he began to hum.
She froze, then twisted on her stool and glanced up at him.
The sunlight caught half of him as he leaned against the ladder and the wall, deepening the color of his clothes and skin, and blazing against his hair. His hands moved swiftly, deftly, over the loose windowsill as he secured it. He held two nails between his lips, his attention fixed on his work. And he hummed a soft, strange tune that carried through the midmorning air like a breeze.
For a long moment, Marina didn’t move or even breathe as she listened, studying the way he moved, trying to remember if she had heard the song before. He used one nail, then the other, and then with his liberated mouth, he began to sing, quietly. She blinked. It was another language—something like Swedish or Danish…But she couldn’t tell.
Then he paused, turned his head and looked down at her.
For a moment, her eyes locked with his, and she saw nothing but the shade of the sky. Then he smiled, and Marina’s face flooded with heat. She quickly turned back around and began hacking at the bushes with a vengeance. For a few moments, he was silent behind her, and her blush started to hurt.
His hammer tap-tap-tapped again. He resumed his lilting hum. And she let herself start breathing—but she did not let herself turn around and stare at him any more.
“Ow! Crap!” Marina hissed, jerking her hand back and shaking it out, then prying her glove off. She sucked in air through her teeth as she rested her right hand on top of her left, watching a long line of blood bloom from her wrist to her forefinger knuckle.
A thud issued from around the corner of the house. Then, Bird came striding around into the shade, his brow furrowed, his eyes finding her hand.
“What happened?”
“Oh, this stupid rosebush,” Marina halfway gestured to the gnarled old plant leaning against the house. “It bit me.”
Bird put his hands on his hips and studied her, then the rosebush.
“What were you trying to do?”
“I want to cut it down and then pull it out,” she answered, wincing at the sting that darted up and down her hand now. Bird glanced at her, startled.
“Why?” he asked.
“Look at it. It’s not blooming, and it doesn’t look like it’s planning to,” she answered. “Plus, I think it’s trying to climb into my window.”
He shook his head.
“I think you have the wrong idea.”
She frowned at him.
“What do you mean?”
He knelt down in front of it, and reached out toward its thick, wicked branches. Marina flinched back…
But he didn’t recoil. Instead, he gingerly moved the branches, feeling them, studying their form. Then, he turned, and picked up her clippers from the grass, and began strategically cutting at the small, withered branches.
“This bush is a different kind from the ones along your walkway,” he explained quietly as he clipped. “Those were bought in this part of the country—they were bred for this weather. But this one…” he paused, and pulled a few dead leaves off and flicked them aside. “This is from somewhere else entirely. A different climate, different soil. Picked up on some faraway travels, I suppose. And see, it’s a climbing rose, and those are not.” He gestured back to the others. The pain of Marina’s wound faded as she watched him, measuring what he said.
“It’s had to survive far harsher winters than it was meant for, and a lot less sunlight than it needed,” he went on. “But it did what it had to in order to survive—it leaned up against the house, near the fireplace here, see? The warmth and shelter of the house has kept it alive. And the one who built the house was wise enough to plant this bush on the south side, away from the brutal north wind—and that same person nursed it and fought off frost and bugs for probably twenty or thirty years before the bush got strong enough to fend for itself. But it wouldn’t leave the house then, even though it could.” He sat back on his haunches, his arms unbloodied, even though he had been elbow deep in the teeth of that bush. Bird glanced up at Marina, holding her still with his gaze.
“It’s a late bloomer,” he said, giving her a crooked smile. “But I think, if you’ll have a little patience with its difficult attitude, it might turn out to be the prettiest rose you’ve got.”
Marina looked at him for a moment, marveling at the way his speech flowed from practical to decorous, and how he talked about the rosebush as if it were a person.
“Okay,” she found herself saying, answering his smile. “I’ll see if I can keep from killing it.”
He grinned, and stood up, then stepped closer and eyed her cut.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she answered, nodding. “I’ll just go clean it up.”
“Are you sure? It looks like it hurts,” he said, watching her face.
“Ha,” she laughed, a bitter gall rising in her throat. “Believe me, I’ve had a lot worse.”
His brow tightened and concern lit up his eyes. She forced a smile and stepped around him, heading for the house. And as she pushed open the door, she almost swore she heard him murmur something soothing to that rosebush—but she couldn’t understand a word.
Chapter Four
“There you go—what do you think?” Bird asked breathlessly as he hopped down from the third rung of the ladder and trotted across the grass over to her. Marina stood up from her garden stool and dusted her hand off on her jeans, then reached up and adjusted the crooked chain of the necklace that hid under her collar. She shot him a startled look.
“Are you finished already?” she asked. “It’s only been two days!”
“Yep,” he said triumphantly, folding his strong arms and facing the house. Marina glanced past him and up, and let her eyes wander over all of the now-perfect-and-painted windows.
“Looks great,” she nodded. “Very pretty.”
“Good,” he nodded. He heaved a deep breath. “That means I have time for that herb garden.”
Marina blinked.
“The what?”
He strode around the house, past the bushes and toward the side of her vegetable garden.
“Your herb garden,” he repeated. “You’ve got a lot of stuff growing—asparagus, rhubarb, spearmint, dill, garlic…You just can’t see them because of all the weeds.”
Marina frowned, dropping the clippers from her left hand into the dirt and following him.
“But I…” she tried, blushing in spite of herself. “I…I can’t pay you for—I mean, I can’t afford—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he waved her off as he paused in front of a small section of earth that had been plotted out with now half-buried bricks. “My work day just ended a few minutes ago, and the rhubarb has been crying to me all afternoon.” He glanced over his shoulder at her and flashed a grin. She paused, and raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“Crying to you,” she said flatly.
“Well, maybe crying is the wrong word,” he shrugged one shoulder.
“Probably ‘sweetly requesting’ would be better. I could say the same thing about the asparagus, just take the ‘sweet’ part out—asparagus get all stuffy-acting when they’re asking favors.” He turned back toward the garden. “The spearmint I just had to ignore—they’re pushy and overpowering, as you know, unless you keep them at a distance. I can personally only take them in small doses. And the dill is just plain saucy about it, and the garlic is downright loud, making a lot more fuss than the situation actually warrants, so you see…”
Marina was already grinning and shaking her head too hard to hear the rest, and he trailed off, grinning at her. She calmed down, pressing the back of her wrist to her mouth, hiding her smile.
“So you see,” he finished. “They’re all whining about the weed situation.” He canted his head. “Want to help me get them to shut up?”
“Sure,” Marina shrugged helplessly and beamed. “Can’t have my herbs complaining, can I?”
“Is this really how you like to spend your Saturdays?”
Bird glanced up at her over the tall stalks and green leaves of the white lilies. He then continued to pull up weeds from between the feet of the elegant flowers and toss them to the side. His arms were dirty up to the elbows, as were the knees of his jeans, and he had a smear of dirt across his forehead.
“Look who’s talking,” he answered, then sent her a twinkling glance. Marina chuckled, and sat back on her stool. She peeled off her work gloves and tried not to wince as the worn leather came loose of her left hand, then brushed a strand of hair out of her face.
“You’ve been done with the house for a week now,” she pointed out. “But you keep coming back to work in this garden in the afternoons, even though I’m not paying you, and now you’re here on a Saturday—”
“Would you like me to leave?”
Marina stopped. He met her eyes, perfectly serious, his eyebrows raised.
“No!” she said quickly, sitting up straight. Her face heated up—again, and she stammered. “I mean…No, I’m not telling you to leave. In fact, I like…I mean, I appreciate…” she pulled her arm toward her, then swallowed. “I was just wondering why—”
“You have one of the best gardens I’ve ever seen,” Bird interrupted seamlessly, still weeding. “And one of the oldest. I know you want to fix all this up, make it look nice—but that’s a lot of work. Lucky for you, I love getting my hands covered with dirt.” He tossed a dandelion over his shoulder. “Plus, you just moved here, and you don’t know anybody.” He sat up, and dusted his hands off. He looked at her squarely, then gave her a quiet smile. “And I won’t let anybody sit alone in a great big house if she looks like she needs some company.”
For a moment, she just gazed back at him, her cheeks still flushed—but a soft glow guttered to life in her chest.
“Really?” she murmured.
His eyes flickered.
For just an instant, she almost frowned. Then, his expression cleared, and he nodded. She ducked her head, smiling again, and shrugged.
“Well…” she managed. “Thanks.”
He was silent for a second. Then, he cleared his throat.
“’course, I may have to say something about the weird color of green that you picked to frame the door…”
She threw a clod of dirt at him. He ducked, laughing.
They continued working in companionable silence, and so the heat in her face faded—but the warmth deep inside her did not.
“How’s work today?” Marina asked, taking a long sip of her cherry limeade, then pushing aside the remnants of her sandwich wrappings and leaning back in the red-padded diner chair. She canted her head at Bird, who sat across from her at the tiny two-person table right next to the sunlit ceiling-to-floor front window of Theresa’s.
“Busy this morning,” he admitted, his brow furrowing as he poured more catsup out onto his fries. “Mr. Petrson cut down a line of oaks by his driveway—we had to pull out the stumps.”
Marina studied him. He sullenly clenched his jaw.
“You all right?” she asked.
He shook his head, still not looking up.
“It’s the oaks.”
“What about them?”
“They were healthy,” he said, putting the catsup down with more than necessary force. His jaw tightened. “There was nothing wrong with them. And they had to be at least a hundred years old.”
Marina frowned.
“Why did he cut them down, then?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t know. Didn’t like them blocking the view of the bay, I guess,” he muttered. He shoved his food basket away and sat back abruptly, crossing his arms and looking out the window. He huffed, and shook his head.
“What right does Petrson have to take them down?” He ground his teeth. “A century they’ve survived, through ice and snow and drought—and he fells them in one afternoon. They’re his elders. He should have some respect.”
They went silent. Marina bit her lip, and glanced outside at the empty main street. Bird stayed petulantly quiet. Marina hooked her thumb through the necklace at her throat and pulled the chain out of her collar, and fingered the pendant. She glanced at him—he still stared out the window.
“I was thinking of planting an oak off to the side of my house,” she said, tilting her head, and glancing back at him.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his mouth still tight. Then, the hardness in his face melted into warmth, and he smiled.
“I can probably get you a good deal on a sapling,” he said.
“Good,” she smiled at him, the weight of his mood lifting off her like clouds opening up to the sun. She sat forward. “Actually, I—”
“What’s that?”
Marina halted. Bird’s bright blue eyes had sharpened in a keen stare at her—no, at her necklace.
“Oh, uh—this?” Her brow furrowed and she glanced down at the pendant. Something lodged in her throat. She had to fight for a moment to find her voice again. “My…My dad gave it to me. It’s—”
“Mjollnir,” he finished, his eyes still fixed on it. Marina’s eyebrows shot up.
“You…You know what this is?”
“Sure I do,” he nodded. “Could I…?”
Before he could finish his question, or she could answer it, he had reached out and taken hold of her pendant. Their fingers brushed. She gasped, and almost jerked back—then stopped herself to keep from pulling it out of his grasp.
She held very still as he leaned forward, until their heads were not six inches apart. His forehead tightened and his eyes narrowed as he held the pendant with his first two fingers and his thumb. Marina risked a glance down at it—it was a decorative interpretation of Thor’s hammer, made of silver, slightly tarnished.
“The designs on it are beautiful—very delicate,” he observed quietly. “Is it an antique?”
“I think so,” Marina answered, unable to summon much volume with him so close. “But I can’t remember. I’ve worn it for several years.”
He didn’t answer—just ran his thumb over the “T” portion of the hammer.
“You’re…” she ventured. “You’re interested in old Norse myths?”
He halfway smiled.
“Ever since I was born.” He lifted his bright eyes to hers. “Are you? Or was this just a present?”
“No, I…” she started, her heartbeat starting to pound in her throat. “I mean, my dad and I are Old Norse scholars. Well, I…I am. My dad…was.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Scholars?” he repeated, mercifully leaving the subject of her father alone. “In what capacity?”
“Archaeology, mostly,” she said, absently realizing that he still had hold of her pendant, and had not leaned back. “And…And literature. Dad collected manuscripts and antique books.”
“Really?” he sounded pleased, astonished.
“Yeah,” Marina answered, surprised.
A slow smile bloomed on his face.
“Would you...I mean, could I see them?”
“Um…” she swallowed hard, but she couldn’t think clearly at all with his fingers just inches from her face. “Sure—?”
“I mean, I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he said hastily. “I just think all that stuff is so—”
“No, it’s okay,” she cut in. “Sure. Sure, you can see it,” she nodded, finally realizing that she meant it. She smiled at him. “Would this evening work?”
He dropped her pendant and leaned back, grinning.
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
“What a fantastic library,” Bird remarked quietly as he stepped through the door, his tea cup in hand, and slowly gazed from one corner of the room to the other.
“Thanks,” Marina said, following him in. It was still halfway light outside, but since there were no windows in the library, so it was dark except for the standing lamp, the fire in the fireplace, and the candles she’d lit on the mantelpiece. She put her hands in her pockets and shoved a half-full packing box with her toe.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said. “I tried to straighten a little this afternoon, put more stuff up on the shelves, but there’s so much. And, you know, I’ve been outside mostly for the past couple weeks…”
“Sure,” Bird said lightly, stepping further in to study the spines of the books on the far wall. Marina paused by the fireplace, watching him in the gold half light. It was chilly this evening—he wore a dark blue sweater and nice jeans and boots, and he had combed his hair. He seemed softer, stronger—and older, somehow. But more vivid, alive—close. He sent a casual glance over at her, and her heart suspended. He smiled.
“You sure you have enough shelf space for all this?” he asked, gesturing to the remaining full boxes and taking a sip of tea.
“Ha, I hope so,” Marina smiled crookedly. “I’d hate to leave something homeless.”
He came closer, and leaned over one of the boxes. Then, something in his face changed.
“What are these?”
Marina stepped up next to him and looked down.
“Oh—a few of the artifacts my dad came across on our…on our last dig.” She paused, forcing that familiar, wicked pain back down her throat. She wrapped her arms around her middle and straightened.
Then, Bird bent down and picked one up. Startled, Marina tried to say something to stop him, but nothing came out. He carefully lifted one of the small, squatty stone figures up out of the box, and held it in front of him.
“Loki,” he stated. Marina stared at Bird.
“You recognize him?”
His eyes never left the statue, which he held almost gently.
“Well,” he said quietly. “I recognize that it’s supposed to be him. Being punished by the snake, right?” he glanced at her. For a moment, she thought she saw the skin around his eyes tighten. She nodded.
“I actually think he deserved it, don’t you?” she murmured. “For killing Bauldr?”
He was silent for a long time.
“But that brings Ragnarok, doesn’t it?” he said. “Makes Loki so angry that he wants to destroy everyone and everything.”
“Yes,” Marina said carefully, studying Bird’s profile. “I suppose so.”
For a while, they were quiet. Then, Bird took a low breath.
“Kjóll ferr austan, koma munu Múspells,” he murmured. of lög lýðir, en Loki stýrir; fara fíflmegir með freka allir, þeim er bróðir Býleists í för.
Surtr ferr sunnan með sviga lævi, skínn af sverði sól valtíva; grjótbjörg gnata, en gífr rata, troða halir helveg, en himinn klofnar.”
Marina couldn’t take her eyes from him. The Old Norse words flowed easily from his lips, lilting with his deep voice. When he stopped speaking, she could swear he could hear her heart pounding. But if he did, he didn’t show it—he stared at the statue. So she took a breath of her own.
“O'er the sea from the east there sails a ship,” she translated, hushed. With the people of Muspell, at the helm stands Loki; After the wolf do wild men follow, And with them the brother of Byleist goes.”
Bird turned to look at her, fixing his gaze on her. The firelight flickered against his eyes. She swallowed, but he waited, so she went on.
“Surt fares from the south with the scourge of branches, The sun of the battle-gods shone from his sword; The crags are sundered, the giant-women sink, The dead throng Hel-way, and heaven is cloven.”
She stopped to catch her breath. He watched her.
“You memorized the Edda?”
She lifted her eyebrow.
“You memorized it in Old Norse,” she countered.
He suddenly chuckled.
“Yeah, well…” he bent, and put the Loki statue back. “I’m a geek like that.”
“You’re not a geek,” Marina said quietly. He straightened, and met her eyes. She cleared her throat and looked the other way, hiding her blush yet again.
She sensed him open his mouth to say something—but then he stopped. She turned, and frowned at him.
He was looking at the framed artifact above the fireplace.
“What’s this?” he whispered, his voice entirely different—enough to make a chill run down her spine. He stepped around her to stand right in front of the mantle. He set his tea down next to one of the candlesticks, then didn’t move.
“I actually found that in the back of an old library when I was fifteen,” Marina explained. “I just thought it was interesting, and so the librarian paid me with it, instead of money, for straightening all his archival shelves.” She came up next to Bird and turned her gaze to the subject of her narrative. It was an old piece of parchment, three feet by three feet, its borders illuminated with ships and sea monsters and intricate, twisting knots. In the center had been drawn, in black ink, a broad stone gate, with an arched top—and in the center of the arch stood a carving of Mjollnir, Thor’s hammer. Through the center of the gate, a great, gnarled tree stood. And all around the gate stood a thick, thorny forest dotted with disembodied eyes—and a few wiry wolves with lolling tongues lurked between the rocks and shrubs.
“Looks frightening,” Bird remarked. “What’s the inscription, there at the bottom?”
“Stien til Asgard,” Marina said. “It means—”
“Gate to Asgard,” Bird finished. She blinked.
“You…You didn’t just memorize the Edda, did you?” she realized. “You know old Norse!”
“Yes,” he nodded absently, then pointed at the drawing. “What did your father have to say about this?”
Marina said nothing for a long moment. It was getting harder and harder to ignore that old pain, that shadow reaching up to smother her.
“He thought it was a real structure,” she managed, taking a deep breath. “Another dig site to investigate—maybe a place for ritual sacrifice or something.” She glanced down at the floor. “He seemed to think it was around here somewhere, actually.”
Bird looked at her sharply.
“He did?”
Marina lifted her head, and nodded.
“Yeah. Which is why I came and bought this house.” She paused, and gazed up at the drawing again. “Of course, neither of us believe it’s the gate to Asgard, but…” she shrugged tightly. “He was interested in it. It was almost enough to…” Her throat closed up, and she couldn’t keep going.
Bird stayed quiet for a long time. She didn’t look at him. Then, he drew himself up, and turned toward her.
“Hey,” he said, his tone easier. “There’s still some light out—want to go see if we can find a good spot for your oak?”
“Yeah,” Marina sucked in a deep breath, blinking tears back and tightening her arms around herself. She forced a smile and a glance in his direction. “Sounds good.”
Read the whole book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Bauldrs-Tears-Retelling-Lokis-Fate-ebook-dp-B071JM6YCW/dp/B071JM6YCW/ref=mt_kindle?_encoding=UTF8&me=&qid=1572839008
